


stories

by laureljay



Series: stories [1]
Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-02 02:57:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15787542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laureljay/pseuds/laureljay
Summary: He says, “I have something to tell you. I kinda – well, I knew your mom. We were friends.” Sort of.Launchpad has been hiding some things.





	stories

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the whatever-happened-to-Della plotline. There is no actual death, but the characters don't know that.

After the fight on the _Sunchaser_ , keeping secrets from the triplets feels unsustainable. Launchpad is up all night trying to figure out how to tell them what he knows for a week. There are parts they shouldn’t hear, but he knows these kids; if they think he’s hiding something they’ll find it out, for better or worse. It’s not until after the shadows’ attack that he has even a loose plan.

He takes the boys to lunch, his (Mr. McD’s) treat. They choose a diner by the marina, a traditional 24-hour neon-sign place called Donna’s. The waitress greets the boys by name when she sees them, and Dewey gives her a finger-gun hello as the others lead Launchpad to a booth.

They squeeze onto the bench opposite Launchpad: Louie in the corner, Huey in the middle, and Dewey on the end. There’s room next to Launchpad, but they don’t seem to mind being so close. They already know what to order, and insist on ordering for Launchpad too.

As the waitress – Max, according to her nametag – takes their menus, Launchpad takes a deep breath. “Guys,” he says, “I have something to tell you. I kinda – well, I knew your mom. We were friends.” Sort of.

For a few seconds they all just look at him. Their expressions vary; Huey frowns, Dewey scowls, and Louie’s eyes widen and he leans in.

Dewey speaks first. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”

“I’m sorry. At first I didn’t know you didn’t know, then I heard you guys on the _Sunchaser_ , but then you were moving away and then there was the shadows-coming-alive-and-attacking-people-thing and—”

“Okay, okay,” Huey says, holding his hands up in a placating move. “Dewey, you didn’t tell anyone you were looking into Mom, it’s not fair to be upset with him for not saying anything.”

Dewey looks like he wants to argue, but then he shakes his head. “Fine, you’re right,” he mutters. Sorry, Launchpad.”

“No worries, best buddy.”

Louie, who’s been quietly watching until now, asks, “How did you meet her?”

* * *

Two things become clear to Launchpad at about the same time: one, the woman at the end of the bar is Della Duck, world-famous pilot and traveler; and two, she is no longer at the end of the bar but is instead heading _over to him_.

“Mind if I sit?” she asks, not waiting for an answer before she takes the seat across from his. The bar looks out onto the marina, and she glances out at the water before turning her gaze to him.

“Yeah. Uh, I mean, no, I mean, go ahead.” Honestly, he’s speaking English, so this isn’t the worst he’s ever opened with. She raises her eyebrows at him but doesn’t laugh.

“Nice to meet you,” she says. “I’m Della.”

He almost says _I know_ , but that feels creepy. “I’m Launchpad,” he offers instead, and this time she does laugh.

“That’s a fantastic name,” she says. She nods at the goggles hanging around his neck. “You a pilot, too?”

“Uh-huh. Crash better than I fly, though.”

“Aw, buddy, I’m sure you’ll get it eventually. Took me a while to learn how, too.” She reaches out to pat his shoulder sympathetically and leaves her hand there just a second too long to be friendly.

Once Launchpad finds his voice again, he asks about her adventures. He’s heard rumors – every pilot he’s ever met has said her name with quiet awe – but he finds that they don’t hold a candle to the stories she tells him. She’s explored ruins older than recorded history and held emeralds larger than her own head.

“As a matter of fact,” she says, leaning in and lowering her voice, “I’m flying out on another expedition tomorrow.”

“Where to?”

“Oh, that’s a secret for now.” She leans even closer to him and her smile turns almost devious. “Won’t you give me something to remember before I go?” she murmurs, then gets up, drops a couple of bills onto the bar, and walks out into the parking lot. Launchpad takes a moment to pick his jaw up off the floor before he follows her to her car.

* * *

“I mean, there’s not that many pilots in Duckburg. I’d heard of her. When I had just started, she was already crossin’ oceans.” Launchpad pauses. “We met on the marina. She just took a likin’ to me, I guess.”

“Ooh.” Dewey goes starry-eyed. “Did she take you under her wing, teach you how to fly like she did? How patient of her.” He leans on one elbow. “Heroic, even.”

“She probably had, like, normal relationships with other people that weren’t about being a hero,” Huey says. He turns back to Launchpad. “What was she like?”

This is the easiest question to answer, and the most truthful he can be. “She was brave, and a little crazy. She was a hundred times smarter than me.”

“We coulda guessed that,” Louie mumbles, then winces as Huey elbows him in the ribs.

Launchpad shrugs. “Naw, that’s fair. Let me see. One time, a guy told her he thought he was a better pilot, so she challenged him to a race through the Amazon jungle. _Under the tree canopy_ , in helicopters.”

Dewey’s eyes widen in admiration. “She won, right?”

“Oh, yeah. The other guy crashed into a tree, like, right away.” Off Huey’s look, he adds, “I know that makes him sound like me, but I never thought I was better than Dels.”

* * *

They’re a regular thing. They’re both based out of Duckburg, but they both have jobs that take them all over the world on short notice. Sometimes they go months at a time without seeing each other; more rarely, they have long weekends to themselves in exotic locales.

They happen to be in the same region at the same time: Launchpad barely manages to land a chartered flight to Cusco, and Della and her family have business at Machu Picchu. He’s there when she overhears Charlie de Canard telling a girl he’s the best pilot the Western Hemisphere has ever seen. Launchpad can see where the night is going even before Della whirls around to call de Canard out.

The race is set up for the next afternoon, to give the participants time to prepare. Della disappears – to rent a helicopter and to let her family know they’ll be spending an extra night or two in Peru – but makes it back to Launchpad just after midnight. He rubs her shoulders as they get ready for bed, feeling the muscles in her back move as she arches into the touch.

“You’ve been quiet. Not scared, are you, Dels?” he asks, trying to be playful.

It doesn’t quite work. She sighs, “I haven’t let fear stop me from doing something I wanted to do since I was three years old.” Her hands to come up to still his, her thumbs rubbing over the backs of his hands. “My brother’s not happy with me. He thinks I’m going to hurt myself or something. It’s like, just because Donald’s five minutes older he has a lifetime of wisdom he has to use to keep me from breaking. My uncle’s cool with it, though. He told me to—” she chuckles and affects a heavy accent – “make me proud, lass!”

“Whoa,” Launchpad says, “your uncle’s Irish?”

* * *

“We already knew Mom was cool,” Louie says. “But what was she _like_? Was she funny? What kind of movies did she like? Did she give good hugs?”

“She liked romantic comedies,” he says. “She thought action movies were boring. She didn’t tell jokes, but she liked to laugh. I don’t know about the hugs.” He doesn’t know how she would have hugged her kids, anyway.

* * *

 

Della, more than anything else, likes to tell stories. Launchpad supposes this might be a character flaw if she weren’t so good at it. For one thing, Della has an interesting life; she’s constantly meeting unusual people and doing extraordinary things. For another, she knows how to tell them. She understands how to charm her audience: when to pause for dramatic effect, the right inflection to use for a punchline, how to gloss over the less interesting parts without making the listener feel lost. Her uncle’s the jokester, but her imitation of his gruff voice and accent only add to his humor.

She also has a talent for making herself the center of a narrative even when it isn’t necessarily about her. Donald’s defeat of a sea monster becomes her nail-bitingly close encounter with it, although she makes sure to emphasize his fearlessness in the moment. She tells a dive bar full of sailors this tale, and glows nearly iridescent under their rapt attention.

Alone, she’s much the same, but her stories take on a different tone. Some of the unusual people she meets around the world are young and beautiful, and he doesn’t expect her to ignore them just for him.

And the stories are _good_. She tells him about the dangerous pirate she seduced into letting her go free (well, dozing off long enough for her to escape). She describes in exquisite detail just how the Greek goddess of the moon likes to be kissed. Launchpad has his own stories, too – one, about a girl near Shanghai, she enjoys so much that he only gets through about two-thirds before his mouth is required for other things – but he concedes defeat more often than not.

* * *

“What else?” Dewey pushes.

“She liked to tell stories, and she was good at it. She liked the spotlight.”

“Like me,” Dewey murmurs, to the other triplets’ great amusement.

“Did you know she was going to space?” Huey asks.

Launchpad shakes his head. “The last time I saw her was right after she learned she was having you guys. She was so excited. She already had your names picked out and everything.”   

* * *

The air outside smells like the snow that’s been threatening to fall for nearly a week, and Launchpad is curled up under a heavy blanket. Della, who’s always warm, lies on top of the covers next to him. She’s bare, and he watches the rhythmic rise and fall of her breathing as she dozes.

He’s drifting off, too, so he jumps a little when she says, “L.P. You still awake?”

“Uh. Yeah, I’m up.” He blinks heavily and props himself up on one elbow to look at her. “What is it, Dels?”

She rolls over to face him and leans in so their foreheads are nearly touching. “I have something to tell you,” she murmurs, “but you need to keep it a secret. You can’t let anyone know ‘til I tell you it’s okay. Okay?”

He nods solemnly. Keeping secrets is not one of Launchpad’s (admittedly, few) skills, but if Della needs him to, he’ll figure it out.

She takes his hand and slowly moves it onto her belly, then places her hand on top of his. She breaks into a giddy grin as she whispers, “I’m having ducklings.”

That’s. Not what he was expecting, really. For a moment, the thought of Della as a mom seems as incongruous as the thought of her at the bottom of the ocean. Then he remembers that she actually _did_ that - and that she loves her family even more passionately than she loves to fly. He grabs her hand and squeezes it, kisses her forehead and her cheeks.

“Dels. Della. That’s amazing. Boys or girls? How many? Are you gonna teach them to fly?” He means to stop talking, to give her time to answer, but another question comes out before he can stifle it. “Is it – am I – am I their dad?”

Her smile wavers and he feels instantly guilty. Before he can say anything else though, she says, “I don’t know for sure, L.P. I’m sorry if that’s not the answer you were hoping for.” She sits up, looks down at her feet, away from him.

“Dels, it’s okay, I don’t care. They’re gonna be your kids and they’ll be wonderful and fearless and—” he can’t come up with a third word, so he just sits up and hugs her gently from behind, resting his chin gently on the top of her head.

She giggles, and Launchpad feels some of the tension leave her. “Yeah. They’ll be awesome, won’t they?” She wriggles out of his arms and turns to face him. “You asked a bunch of other questions.” She ticks each one off on her fingers as she answers it. “First: of course I’m gonna teach them to fly. I would hatch them in the air if I didn’t think Donald would kill me. I don’t know if they’re boys or girls yet, but I have names picked out for either option. And they’re triplets. Can you believe that?” She beams up at him. “They’ll never be lonely. They’ll always have each other, just like me and Donald.”

He grins back at her, this fierce little genius. Then a thought occurs to him and his stomach drops. Timidly, he asks, “I didn’t hurt them, did I? Earlier? When we…” He trails off as Della’s eyes narrow in confusion, then widen again. Then she starts to laugh, a long belly laugh that leaves her gasping for breath.

“No,” she finally wheezes, “you didn’t hurt them. They’re fine.” She lies back down, little aftershocks of laughter still shaking her shoulders. “Thanks, L.P. I’ve gotta go to sleep, now. Gotta get an early start tomorrow if I wanna beat the snow.”

She kisses him goodbye the next morning, and that’s the last he sees of Della Duck.

* * *

Dewey’s expression falls like he’s been promised a puppy and given a pet rock instead. Launchpad gets the distinct impression that as much as he knows _what_ happened to his mother, Dewey’s still looking for the _why_ , not satisfied with the idea that she took a risk and it didn’t pay off.

But Launchpad can’t think of any other reason for her to have left her family. “Della thought she could do anything,” he says simply. “I thought she could, too.”

Huey has pulled his guidebook from a hidden pocket and is flipping through a section of calendars. “Did she get you the job with Uncle Scrooge?”

* * *

When he hears that Scrooge McDuck is hiring a personal chauffer, Launchpad’s first thought is _Della said she did most of the driving._ His next thought is that he hasn’t heard anything from her in months. It’s not uncommon for them to spend this much time apart – but she hasn’t even _called_ , and the number he usually finds her at has been disconnected.

He sends a resumé and only makes a minor fool of himself on the phone with the secretary. His interview is scheduled at the manor, rather than the McDuck Enterprises building, which surprises Launchpad but is ultimately useful; maybe he’ll be able to find her.

He’s greeted and invited in by an older woman who is nearly as tall as he is. “I am Mrs. Beakley, Mister McDuck’s housekeeper. I’ll let him know that you’ve arrived,” she says briskly. She appears to be about to give him some other direction but is interrupted by the sound of a baby crying nearby. Launchpad’s heart misses a beat – but Mrs. Beakley explains, “My granddaughter, excuse me,” and hurries off in the direction of the noise.

Launchpad is left to wait in the foyer, shifting on his feet. He peeks into the adjacent rooms, but the first floor of the mansion appears to be empty save for Mrs. Beakley, whom he can still faintly hear singing to the baby.

When she reappears, she leads Launchpad to a study but pauses on the threshold. “You should know, Mister McDuck just—”

A voice from within the room interrupts her. “If that’s the new one, send him in, then,” it calls. Mrs. Beakley just shakes her head and gestures for Launchpad to enter.

He steps into the study; it’s bigger than it looked from outside, poorly lit, but beautifully decorated in deep jewel tones. Behind a mahogany desk that looks too stately and old-fashioned to be of use in a real office is Mr. McDuck himself. He looks terrible, and that thought sparks fear that settles behind Launchpad’s ribcage, pulsing in time with his heart. His clothes are disheveled – Della used to laugh at how fastidious he could be, even in the face of serious danger – and he seems to be looking through Launchpad rather than at him.

“Uh, hi, sir. I’m Launchpad.” Della told him stories, but he’s never met the man himself before now.

“Great,” Mr. McDuck says, with absolutely no inflection. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

What follows would be a perfectly normal job interview were it not for the fact that McDuck’s voice and face remain so blank that Launchpad briefly considers the possibility he’s been replaced with a robot.

Eventually McDuck says, “You may address any further questions to Mrs. Beakley or call the secretary. McDuck Enterprises will be in touch.” With that, he returns his attention to his desk, which for all its grandiosity holds exactly one sheet of paper. It’s clearly Launchpad’s cue to leave.

He doesn’t take it. “Uh, wait, sir,” he stammers, and McDuck looks up sharply. “What happened – where’s Della?”

McDuck’s expression darkens so much so quickly that Launchpad has to take a step back and steady himself. He considers fleeing the room, leaving the mansion and convincing himself that Della is still traveling the world with three ducklings in tow, just as brave as she is. It’s that thought, _brave as she is_ , that makes him stay put and brace himself.

At least some of that must show on his face, because McDuck’s softens just a bit. At length, he says only, “Della’s gone.”

“Gone.” He wants to ask _when, how_ but can’t find the words.

“You knew her?”

“Yes, sir.” He doesn’t elaborate and isn’t asked to.

McDuck looks for an instant like he would very much like to hit someone, but it passes. “You can start Tuesday.” His voice is thick. “Now go.”

* * *

 “Nah, that was after. Mister McDee was still pretty messed up,” Launchpad says, shaking his head. All three of the triplets look a little guilty at that, remembering the way they’d yelled at their uncle on the plane.

The moment passes as Max comes back, balancing four grilled cheeses and the biggest plate of fries Launchpad has ever seen through either intense practice or dark magic. “Remember to share,” she teases the boys. To Launchpad she whispers, “If you don’t keep these kids in check you’ll be the one cleaning up after the food fight, okay? I’ve been burned before.”

He gives her an affirmative salute, and she leaves them to their comfort food.

All four of them are about to dig in when Louie says, “Wait, wait.”

“Yeah, buddy?”

“Do you know who our dad is?” he asks, not looking up from his plate, and Huey and Dewey both turn to stare at him in surprise. “Uncle Donald said Mom didn’t tell him but I thought maybe if you were her friend she might have told you and I just wanted to know—” and Louie looks up and his eyes are shining wet. Huey moves lightning-fast to put his arm around him and let Louie lean into his shoulder, the shock on his face settling into concern.

“No, I don’t. I don’t know, guys.” It’s true, but saying it feels worse than the white lies.

Huey’s attention is on Louie, who grabs a napkin to wipe at his face before giving the French fries his undivided attention. Dewey is looking at Launchpad, though, with an expression he recognizes from a decade ago. It says, _something isn’t right here._ They make eye contact for just a second before Dewey, too, focuses on his food.

They were right; the tomato-to-cheese ratio on the grilled cheese is perfect. Dewey and Louie engage in a French fry swordfight over Huey’s head, laughing as they push his hat off-balance but then affectionately fixing it, and he can see her in all of them, clear as the night under a full moon.

**Author's Note:**

> Launchpad is the triplets' dad. I am prepared to die on this hill.
> 
> Usually when I am a fan of something, I make playlists about the thing and never share them with another human. I don't know why this is different.


End file.
